


Hard Limit

by Rubynye



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-26 00:23:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1667933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubynye/pseuds/Rubynye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam asks Steve for a promise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hard Limit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dira Sudis (dsudis)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsudis/gifts).



"What I don't get, though, is how he broke your cheekbone." Sam's been wondering about that since he got the list of Steve's injuries, or at least since he stopped having to wonder if Steve would survive; since they're discussing how to handle the Winter Soldier -- _Bucky_ \-- he should ask. "That had to have taken a few blows, I know how hard your head is." Steve chuckles, and Sam smiles as he continues. "So how'd he get the drop on you? We should --"

That's when Sam turns and sees Steve looking down at the table, smiling small and rueful; the rest of his words dry up in confusion and, as Steve braces like he's about to admit a fault, a rising swell of fear. "He didn't," Steve answers quietly. "I let him."

"You what," Sam says, not believing his ears.

"I stopped fighting." Steve looks up, his eyes clear and certain, his shoulders relaxing, letting the admission out. "So he could stop, if he chose. So he could remember me." It's not even a confession, really, as Steve explains his reasoning as if it's reasonable. "Bucky's Steve wouldn't fight him. So I stopped."

Sam got stuck a few sentences ago. "You let him try to kill you."

"But he didn't. He pulled me out of the river. He chose to save me." But Sam's already on his feet, he can't look down into Steve's shining earnest eyes, he flinches away, covering his face. This isn't partners talking over tactics anymore, it's lovers arguing life and death, and all Sam can see seared inside his eyelids is the spiraling gray plume of smoke as what was left of Riley fell out of the sky.

Pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, his ribs locking around his airless lungs, Sam stumbles from the dining table. He makes it as far as the sofa, falls onto it and rests his elbows on his knees as he wrestles his breathing into careful regularity. His memory flicks to Steve pale and sodden on the riverbank, trails of blood drizzling into the Potomac, back to the buzzing silence after the explosion cut off Riley's voice, forward to his own heart banging against his ribs when he spotted the wreck of Steve lying by the river.

Sam swallows hard, focusing on solid footsteps, on Steve's even breathing and carefully loud approach, on the press of his elbows into his quads, on the here and now. "Hey," Steve murmurs, and Sam feels the floor vibrate with a soft double thump. "Sam?" Steve's fingers slide around his wrists, slow and loose, and Sam yields, lets Steve ease his hands away from his face, opens his eyes to see Steve kneeling in front of him with that same sun-bright earnestness.

 _I've got it bad,_ Sam can't help thinking. He's in so far over his head, he's almost as happy to drown as this beautiful idiot was, and that thought reminds him to be mad, to look levelly at Steve's hopeful expression.

"He pulled me out," Steve repeats, stroking Sam's pulse with his thumbs.

"After he shot you, stabbed you, damn near killed you." Sam shakes his head, and the only reason he doesn't shut his eyes is that he'd rather look at Steve than fight off another flashback. "He could've left you in the river, and all I'd have now --" Steve's eyes widen questioningly, and Sam has to shut his now, turning his hands to grip Steve's wrists, to feel his strong steady pulse. "Okay," he says to both of them, "This is where I should be understanding. I get it, I really do. I know you feel responsible."

Steve's pulse spikes against Sam's fingertips, he hauls in a loud insulted breath. "Sam! I'm not--"

"It's not a sign of weakness," Sam pushes out over Steve's objection, before remembering to pull himself back from the illusory control of counselor-mode.

Besides, Steve's unstoppable anyway. "I don't have a death wish!" he insists, and Sam opens his eyes again, meaning to look dubious until he sees the blazing certainty in Steve's face. Steve doesn't lie. "If I did, I could've just lain down and let any number of HYDRA guys take me out."

"So you wouldn't let just anyone have the privilege, that's great." Sam looks down at the carpet between his thighs, at Steve's knees pressed together prayerfully, and thinks his own silent prayer for strength. "But you still--"

"It was the best tactic," Steve insists, his grip tightening, warm and unbreakable. "It worked. You should -- you understand risking it all." His voice goes stern on those words, soldier to soldier.

A thrill rolling through him despite himself, Sam wants to cry foul, but he knows he can't. "I do," he admits. "But I -- okay, I'm being selfish here." He takes a deeper breath and stops trying to hold back, lets himself just say it. "I need a promise, Steve. I need you to try a different tactic next time, we'll figure out what. I need you to not just let him kill you if he tries again. I love you too much. I need you to try to stay alive."

Steve inhales quickly, and Sam squeezes his eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable defense of a man Sam knows only through black-and-white footage and Steve's loving reminisces, the soldier who nearly handed him his final defeat. But Steve just exhales tidally, in and out a few more times before he says, "There's going to be danger ahead."

Sam has to laugh, dryly, cheerlessly. "Which is why you need someone at your back. I'm not expecting miracles, man. I just need to know you'll try."

"I promise to try," Steve says, too quickly, and Sam glares at him. He swings those eyelashes down and looks up again, meltingly sincere. "I promise, Sam. I don't want to die. I have more to live for than I've had in a long time."

"Okay, good." Sam heaves a sigh and sits back, and Steve slides forward gracefully, not letting go. "You can't help him if you're dead, you know."

Steve doesn't nod. In fact, he shrugs, and tugs Sam's wrists. "Yeah, but that's not what I meant." His smile tilts, triumph and mischief, and Sam is in so deep, he never wants to come up again. "Not when I just got the L-word out of you."

"What?" Sam remembers what he just said and blushes hot, and knows Steve knows him well enough to see it. He hangs his head, smiling at the floor, and feels Steve lean in and kiss his forehead. "Yeah, yeah, all right, I love you, Steve Rogers, '40's relic and giant pain in the ass."

"I told you Vaseline works better than that stuff in a tube," Steve says, and Sam laughs from his gut outwards, more happiness than hilarity, lifts his head as Steve leans in, and shares a kiss that feels like a sweet promise all its own. "Lemme up," Steve murmurs into Sam's cheek, pressing a smile to his skin.

"You're the one holding me down," Sam points out, letting go, but Steve just adjusts his grip and pulls himself up onto the sofa, then gathers Sam's hands between his.

"I hope not." Steve's voice is soft and serious, and Sam looks up into those impossibly blue eyes. "Sam Wilson," Steve says, serious as a vow. "I love you. And I promise you, I'll guard my life like I guard yours." Steve shuts those blazing eyes, tipping his forehead to rest on Sam's, sliding his hands up Sam's arms to grip his shoulders. Under Steve's touch Sam finally eases, his hammering heart finally slowing; he wraps both arms around Steve's waist and leans on his unshakable solidity, as Steve tells him once more, "I promise."


End file.
